


Fledgling

by tardisy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 14:45:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1230346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tardisy/pseuds/tardisy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Naturally, amidst his carefully cultivated protests and logic and unyielding denial, Dean was the one to bring their first pet home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fledgling

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: "[...] dean falling in love with and wanting to keep animal first before sam or cas. also maybe established deancas?"
> 
> Also posted on [Tumblr](http://tardisy.tumblr.com/post/77679823163/fledgling-dean-castiel-sam-deancas)!

 

Ever since Dean could remember, Sam wanted a flea-ridden, furry sidekick. When they were young, he tried to appease his little brother with stuffed animals he won from convenience store claw-machines. Then, as they grew older and the allure of pilled fur and googly eyes faded, he tried to discourage him with staticy PBS wildlife specials on their motel TVs. Logic, flawed or not, tended to win out in the end, but Sam’s stubborn desire for a four-legged something-or-other was never extinguished.

Over the years, Sam’s ideal furry (or non-furry) companion changed according to his youthful whims and evolving spatial perception, and Dean could still hear echoes of his own irrefutable reasoning and Sam’s petulant protests.

_No, Sammy, you can’t have an elephant. It’d never fit in the trunk. Ha! Trunk! Get it, Sammy? N’aw, you don’t think I’m funny yet. You will._

_Sammy, how would we get a flamingo into the motel room? They can’t sleep in bathtubs._

_Dad’s gonna kill me if he comes back and finds out you brought home a kitten from school. We can’t keep it, Sam._

_No, no. Don’t even think about takin’ that thing in, college boy. I sure as hell ain’t takin’ care of it when you ditch us._

_Dude, no fucking way. ‘Dog nails’ plus ‘leather seats’ equals no entry for Fido and a bus ticket for a Sasquatch. Take it to a shelter. We got a job._

_Sam, can you honestly imagine a four-legged thing here, in the Bunker? All it needs is to breathe on something the wrong way and we end up the proud owners of a fire-breathing demon- gorilla-snake. N’uh._

Looking back, he felt bad, sometimes, about it. But it wasn’t something he could have changed – couldn’t really still, if he’s honest. It was just their circumstances, just one more thing this life had taken from them, and with everyone from Sarah McLachlan to Bob Barker reminding everyone to think before they get involved with pets, well. As far as Dean was concerned, he was being an upstanding citizen.

And of course, he and Sam have had far bigger issues to contend with these days. Even still, there were times, utterly desperate and low and, he realized, completely irrational, where he thought: _Maybe now, yeah, maybe I’ll get him that dog_ , as though that would somehow repair the crack in their relationship that had been slowly growing (ignored or undetected, he was not sure anymore).

But it was getting better, slowly. They were relearning how to _be_ together, and apart, what that meant for them as a unit and as individuals (even though _that_ turned his stomach and made his heart beat double time in a way he didn’t understand). And, these days, not only were they relearning how to be Dean and Sam, but also how to be Dean, Sam, and Cas.

The angel had quietly taken to using the Bunker as his home-base, going so far as to show up one day when Dean was gone ( _Just a quick salt-and-burn, Sam, I need some air_ , and Sam hadn’t protested), with a duffel bag full of the various items he collected during his dip in the pool of humanity. Dean had returned the next day to a note: _Went out to re-up. Will not forget hamburger buns this time. Don’t expect Funions. –S & C_. Smiling, he was folding the note into his pocket and almost to his room when he noticed that one of the doors – _Cas’_ door – always closed, was wide open. He was over the threshold and inexplicably tearing up before he even quite realized what he was seeing: a folded pillow and rumpled sheets; coins and crumpled paper on the nightstand, a rosary dripping over the edge; a dresser drawer, pulled open, unfamiliar-familiar shirts folded inside; a half-full coffee cup on the desk, stains around the rim, next to the curled cord of a phone-charger; a water-stained photo of him and Sam, tacked to the wall.

When Sam and Castiel returned with grocery bags in hand, he waited until Sam had disappeared into the kitchen before easing Cas’ burden from his arms, and giving him a long look. Cas met his gaze, as he always had, but there was something shy and uncertain in his voice when he mumbled, _Is it alright?_ All Dean could do was pull him close, then, and say, tight and grateful, _This is your home, Cas. You do what you want_. And that was that.

Of course, there were times, now, when Cas and Sam were huddled together around the television, and that goddamn commercial with the sad puppy faces popped on the screen, and he was suddenly being stared down by identical expressions from one giant man and a billion-year-old angel, he had to remind himself of that gratefulness. Or when Sam’s eyes caught on an unfortunate stray while on their way to interview a witness. Or when the same witness’ cat just had kittens and _Oh, Agent, would you like to take one?_ and Sam’s face lit up and Dean had to bite his tongue because he was trying his damnedest to be a brother and friend instead of a parent and keeper. Or when Cas read something and was reminded of his lipstick monkeys and how he could use his borrowed mojo for a primate prison break. Or his current preoccupation with guinea pigs that Dean just did not understand, Jesus Christ. Every time Cas broached that topic, Sam got this fond, sympathetic expression on his face and nodded in time with the angel’s graveled cadence, while Dean wondered what universe he fell into.

Suffice it to say, in a family of yearning fleabag lovers, Dean was an island. He was the last line of defense in keeping their world from morphing into the sequel to “We Bought A Zoo.” He did the Doctor Dolittle thing once, and that wasn’t going to happen again, no thank you.

Naturally, amidst his carefully cultivated protests and logic and unyielding denial, Dean was the one to bring their first pet home.

*      *     *     *     *     *      *     *     *     *

The day didn’t have the best beginning. He didn’t wake up well, nightmares lingering with an acrid burning in his throat and the Mark on his arm throbbing and sore. Sam and Cas had long been up and moving around by the time he felt ready to face the world, and Cas’ face was soft and knowing when Dean said he was ducking out to take care of the car for a few hours.

So Dean was spending some much needed quality time with the Impala while Sam and Cas were doing research inside, cooing at it as he buffed the scuffs and dirt out of the chrome. When he felt as he did now, just at the precipice of spiraling too far downward; when Sam and Cas’ voices were oppressive instead of comforting; when he thought about all he had done, all he still had to do, and he felt ill; when his fingers itched for a bottle or a gun, he reached out for a bucket and rag instead. Sometimes, the soapy water soaking into his shirt, the heavy smell of wet vegetation on the wind, warm sun on his back, the gentle birdsong over a backbeat of Bonham was all he needed to pull him back.

Today, at least, it was certainly doing the trick. Some shrink, or shit, Sam, would probably tell him this was his therapy: cleaning away all of the dirt from his travels, the tension coiled tight in his shoulders easing with each pass of his rag, until all that was left was his baby, spotless and shining and new. Dean didn’t really care why it worked, only knew that it did, and he heaved a deep sigh of relief as he was slowly lulled into a trance-like calm.

Later, he’d look back and say it was his own damn fault for parking the car under a tree – _who_ did _that, seriously, that was like Car-Washing 101_ – but when he heard three consecutive _splats_ , quick like gunshots, somewhere in the vicinity of the hood, it was all he could do to keep his mood from rocketing from “Blissed-Out Hippie” to “Terminator” in the space of a second. Just like that, Dean’s good mood was gone, _poof,_ and he counted down from 10 twice before he was able to bring himself to round the bumper and see the damage.

He paused when, instead of ominous white splotches of bird bombs, he found bright yellow globs dripping around the antenna and down the side, peppered with the shattered remnants of tiny shells. Resting near the tire was an upturned nest.

“Damn.” Dean frowned as he looked up into the swaying branches to find a plump robin staring back at him. She quirked her head to the side once, twice, and Dean swore her little eyes were shrouded in sorrow as she crouched and then flitted away.

He shook his head sadly as he retrieved his bucket and rags, and mumbled a sincere, “I’m really sorry, guys,” before he wiped away the broken yolks. And, okay, although he wasn’t the biggest animal-person in the world, he didn’t have a heart of stone, and when he saw bad things happen to innocent creatures like this, it sucked.

The tension that the morning exercise eased slowly crept back up his spine, and he emptied the bucket at the base of the tree, ready to admit defeat. Dean stiffly bent to brush the fallen nest away from the tire, but pulled back in surprise when a tiny ball of speckled blue rolled free from beneath it.

“Shit, shit, shit.” He tossed the nest like a frisbee to keep it from escaping further, and couldn’t help but look around and think _Did anyone see that?!_ when he successfully trapped it. Ignoring the mud and puddles of soapy water, he knelt and carefully overturned the nest, scooping the little shelled survivor inside. The nest obviously protected it from any potential harm of its descent, as it was completely unscathed. It was. Well, it was beautiful, its saturated, endless blue instantly sparking an unbidden response of _Cas_ , before he realized what he must look like.

He glanced around self-consciously, hoping Sam or Cas didn’t decide to come out and see how things were going, only to find him sitting in a puddle and clutching a mess of twigs and grass to his chest. He cycled quickly through his options, and decided that the best thing he could do was put the nest back in the tree and hope its mother returned. For good measure, he tentatively yelled, “Mama bird! False alarm,” as he secured it to the perch. Satisfied, he turned his back, collected his things, ran a loving hand over the curve of a headlight, and was in back in the Bunker in thirty seconds flat.

Five minutes later, he was back outside, taking the nest down, muttering “Dean, this is stupid, what are you doing,” even as he hunched over the nest and egg protectively, as he snuck it down the stairs and past his brother and his best friend, as he smuggled it into a lower level of the Bunker, into one of the rooms that Sam and Castiel hadn’t quite discovered or bothered with yet.

Using the dusty sheets covering the furniture, he curled the fabric around the nest to keep it steady, and poked gently at the egg until it rolled to rest in the indented center. Dean dropped into a nearby chair and stared at the little blue thing that he swore was developing an attitude with him already.

 _Now what, Dean?_ He could hear its accusing little birdy voice in his head. _You gonna sit on me?_

Groaning, Dean slapped a hand over his eyes.

“Son of a bitch.”

*      *     *     *     *     *      *     *     *     *

After throwing together what he believed was a sufficient enough contraption to keep Tweety warm for the time being, Dean spent the rest of the day stealthily surfing the internet, sneaking books from the Men of Letters library ( _Dragon eggs are probably like robin eggs. Right?_ ), and collecting materials to build an incubator. All the while, he thought, _What has my life become?_ and _God, if Cas and Sam knew I’d never hear the friggin’ end of it_.

Which was exactly why he was keeping this a secret. That was his rationale, because it was the only one he could admit to himself. It would be easier to tell them, get their help and advice, but he was scared and defensive for a reason he couldn’t place. If he was honest with himself, it was probably because he was afraid they’d tell him to put it back outside, to let nature take its course, that it was a lost cause from the moment it hit the pavement. That it was better to let it go.

Rationally, he knew these things, even if he hadn't spent the day reading about how totally screwed he was. But he wanted to try. He didn’t think he could go on with his day knowing that the little guy growing inside of that shell could’ve had a shot, and he could’ve helped but didn’t.

Yes. Those were the reasons.

It had nothing to do, he thought as he screwed two pieces of scrap metal together, with the distant echo of Cas’ voice in his mind, _You can’t save everyone, my friend_ , and Sam’s more recent _My brother, the hero_ remark. It had nothing to do, he thought, as he fiddled with wiring, with the fact that he felt Sam and Cas didn’t really need him, and that they were both slipping through his fingers even as he gripped tighter and tighter. It had nothing to do with the fact that he felt like, one day soon, he was going to be brushing Sam’s hair away from his bloodied face, or feeling the bite of Cas’ scruff against his hands as his eyes flashed and burned. That it was only a matter of when, not if, and when it happened there would be nothing he could do.

There would be nothing he could do, because that was what they’d all agreed to: that in order to be together, they have to let each other go a little. On one level he understood: putting too much wood on a fire smothered instead of burned. But the thought of cutting the cord completely, leaving the three of them to drift together by choice and circumstance instead of tethered together by necessity and duty, scared the shit out of him.

It was nearing 1:30 in the morning when Dean flipped the switch on the incubator and it hummed to life. He smiled, gentle and proud, as he settled the tiny egg inside.

He was trying to teach himself that he was not Sam and Cas’ savior. That the day would come when he had to let them go, and all he’d be able to do was grind his teeth and keep going. Fine.

In the meantime, he was going to at least save this one.

*      *     *     *     *     *      *     *     *     *

“You’ve been sneaking around a lot lately.”

Dean jumped at the rough rumble at his back, hissing a “Goddammit, Cas,” in response.

“And you’ve been quieter than usual. Which many would probably say is a blessing,” and Dean turned around at that, offended scowl firmly in place, “but I, for one, miss your inappropriate comments and ambiguous pop culture references.” There was a barely-there smile on his lips and mild concern lurking in his eyes as he leaned against the doorframe, watching Dean closely.

“My pop culture references are fucking golden. You get through those DVDs I gave you?”

“Dean, there have been more pressing matters –“

“See? I tried to help. Can’t blame me.” A plain brown box on the shelf next to them drew his attention, and he moved to retrieve it.

“And you’re changing the subject.”

Dean swore under his breath. “I’m lookin’ for light bulbs, Cas, okay? Happy now?”

Castiel cocked his head. “No.”

Dean rolled his eyes and returned his attention to the box. With the flick of his wrist, his pocket knife _snicked_ open, and he cut through the peeling brown tape. _Jackpot_.

“What are you going to do with –“

“Did anyone ever tell you,” Dean grunted as he straightened, “that curiosity killed the _Cas_?”

His face scrunched up in confusion, and Dean had just enough time to smirk victoriously before Castiel’s eyes brightened in understanding.

“Killed the _cat_.” His voice was proud, “I got that one.”

Dean hefted the box underneath one arm, leaving one hand free to pat Castiel’s shoulder as he passed into the hallway. “Point for you, buddy.”

“Speaking of cats, Dean –“

He glanced over his shoulder as he hoofed it down the hallway, away from Cas, away from the conversation. “Nope! No cats!” _Especially not while I’ve got a baby bird bun in the oven_.

“Dean.” Although the call was soft, Cas’ voice carried down the empty hallway, and was enough to make Dean stop in his tracks and turn to look at him. Standing beneath a track of dying florescent fixtures, Dean couldn’t see his face, save for the flash of blue when he turned his head, Castiel little more than a shadow poised in the center of the hallway. His figure blocked out the light emanating behind him, a halo glowing soft around his dark silhouette.

“Dean,” he repeated, moving his arms to reach out slightly, his palms turned up in invitation, or concession. “Whatever it is, you can always talk to me.” And after a breath, as though he knew, “You’re not alone.”

 _Not yet_ , his mind supplied immediately, and he swallowed hard, no reply ready at his lips. Neither man moved, the silence stretched like the distance between them, until Dean’s watch timer beeped shrilly, echoing off the walls. _Time to roll the little guy over_ , and with the moment broken, Dean turned the corner and headed toward the lower levels.

*      *     *     *     *     *      *     *     *     *

Over the next several days, Dean developed a fledgling respect for parents, feathered and otherwise. Between research (angelic, demonic, and avian), creating believable excuses as to why he needed to stick close to the Bunker, dodging Sam’s puzzled glances and Cas’ blatantly concerned stares, maintenance of his homemade bird-growing equipment, and caretaking of Omelet (yes, he named it, and it was awesome), he was starting to wear himself thin. Although, Dean thought, he was doing an _eggcellent_ job, for the most part. And what a goddamn shame that all of his amazing puns were going to waste on an empty room.

He chuckled mirthlessly, running his hands over his face. Here he was, 3 in the morning and a week and a half after he took on the responsibility of an almost-bird, hunched over the desk where his incubator sat, reading Vonnegut by the light of the heat lamp. Dean sighed deeply and closed his eyes, letting his head fall into the cradle of his arms.

 _Stupid_ , he thought. _It was stupid to take it back outta that tree. It was stupid not to tell Cas and Sam._ He turned his head to look at the incubator, at the tiny, speckled egg staring back at him accusingly. _Stupid to get invested in a friggin’ bird._ His cheek rested against the raised Mark on his forearm. _Stupid to think_ I _could save you_.

Everything he read, every instinct he had, told him this was a bad idea, that it wasn’t going to work, that it was a lost cause from the moment a gust of wind toppled that mess of twigs and mud out of that tree. Dean pushed away from the desk, and his knees popped as he levered himself up.

“I’m sorry, buddy,” he murmured, feeling ridiculous as his voice cracked. “Wish I could’ve helped ya.” He reached around the box, pulling at the cord. Just before the light flashed out, Dean noticed a small, barely discernible hole the unblemished blue. _That’s a, a pip, thing,_ he thought, shocked. Floundering, he blindly jabbed the plug at the wall in search of the socket, and he had to blink several times when light flooded the area once again.

“Oh my god.” A surge of hope squeezed his heart. “It worked. Holy shit.” The egg shifted slightly, almost in answer. _Almost gave up on me, huh? Dick._ He grinned.

Much later that morning, drifting into afternoon, Dean emerged from the depths of the Bunker, dark circles under his eyes and a wide, inexplicable smile upon his face.

*      *     *     *     *     *      *     *     *     *

If Dean thought he was screwed before, he knew for a fact that he was 100%, Grade A Fucked now. On top of everything else he had to do, Omelet needed constant, regular attention, which meant more frequent and longer disappearances for him, and when a man lived with two guys who not only knew him better than he knew himself, but whose lives revolved around taking note of strange occurrences, it was only a matter of time before he got caught.

He was sitting alone in the library, hunched over a stack of papers, fighting a valiant but hopeless battle against sleep, when his watch’s timer sounded.

“ _Fuck_ me,” he groaned, running weary hands over his face. Dean slapped at his wrist to silence the shrill noise, then pushed himself up to go and feed his feathered charge (or not feathered yet, and damn, newborn birds were not so pretty).

Later, he’ll swear that he didn’t scream when, as he walked through the doorway, Sam said from behind him “What _is_ that?”

A string of creative swearing later, and with his heart still thundering in his ears, Dean ground out, “What is _what_?”

There was no immediate response, as Sam needed to catch his breath after laughing a little too hard. “Sorry, sorry,” he said, in that annoying little brother way that meant he was absolutely not sorry, will do again at earliest convenience. Sam took a deep breath, smile unabated when he clarified, “That timer,” pointing at Dean’s watch.

Dean moved to cover his wrist automatically, as though covering it would make the issue go away. “It’s, uh.” _Smooth, Dean_. “It’s nothing.” He cringed.

Sam’s face darkened in suspicion. “If it’s nothing, why do you run off to parts unknown when it beeps?”

For just this reason, Dean had been trying to keep an eye on the clock, catching the timer before it went off, in an effort to keep Starsky and Hutch off his ass. Of course they would notice anyway. It was naïve to think they wouldn’t.

“It’s nothing, Sam.”

“Dean, you look like crap. You’ve been up moving around during the night, you’re all over the place during the daytime…” Sam trailed off, shrugging. “What’s the deal?”

Dean squared his shoulders, preparing for a fight. As calmly as he could, he repeated, “It’s nothing, Sam.” And then, more dangerously, “You saying I ain’t pulling my weight?”

Sam shook his head, unconvinced and refusing to rise to the bait. Dean could see the gears turning in his head, trying to figure him out. Before he could say anything more, Dean, cranky and irritated, defended the best way he knew how: throwing the first blow. “Why do you care about it, anyway?”

“What?” Sam stilled in surprise.

“Why does it matter?” Inside, his mind was playing a litany of _No_ and _don’t do it this way_. “You want to do different things. Figure who we are, away from each other. All that bullshit.” He didn’t know why he was saying it, didn’t even think he really believed it, but it was as though the floodgates had burst open, and Dean couldn’t control it now. “Thought you’d be happy to have me out of your hair.”

Sam moved closer to him, looking angry, but beneath that his eyes seemed to convey a lurking concern, and Dean knew he wasn’t really buying it. His voice was low and firm when he spoke. “You’re sneaking around, you don’t talk to us, you’re acting weird. Cas and I are worried about you, Dean.”

“ _Right._ ”Dean scoffed unhappily, surprising even himself with an honest, “Don’t know why it matters.”

Sam was visibly taken aback at that, and stumbled over his words, “It matters because we care about you, you dick.”

And now they were approaching _Feelings_ territory, and that was absolutely the last thing Dean wanted. “Well, you shouldn’t,” he sneered, then turned tail. Unfortunately, his little brother had a freakishly large wingspan, and he caught him easily before he could escape.

“Dean –“

“I’m trying, Sam! I don’t know, okay? I don’t know what I’m supposed to be anymore!”

Sam’s face fell, and his hand dropped away from Dean’s arm. He opened his mouth to respond, but Dean stopped him.

“And you can’t tell me what that is. You want me to back off? Fine. I get it.” He clenched his jaw. “But that means you back the fuck off, too.” He spun away, leaving Sam blinking in his wake.

By the time he crossed the threshold of his secret nursery, he was more confused at his own reaction than pissed off at Sam. But only by a small margin. Dean gentled as he sunk into the uncomfortable desk chair, and the little bird’s fluffy head swung toward the direction of the sound of the chair _creak_.

“Hey there, Omelet,” Dean murmured. “Hungry, buddy?”

At Dean’s voice, the tiny creature began its relentless chirping.

“Shh, shh, it’s alright.” As he coaxed some food into its mouth, a dropper of water ready at his elbow, Dean could feel the aggravated heat in his cheeks fade away, the sharp tension in his back subside, and he calmed.

“You’re alright, kiddo. I’m here.”

*      *     *     *     *     *      *     *     *     *

After his confrontation with Sam, they awkwardly avoided each other until they all gathered for a late dinner, where Sam mentioned he found a lead, a potential Gadreel sighting, in a town a handful of hours away.

“Why don’t we all go check it out?” Sam offered, stilted, over his bowl of soup.

Castiel, sitting with a cup of coffee, the only thing he could bear to ingest these days, nodded eagerly in agreement, just a touch _too_ eagerly, and Dean suddenly felt like that teenaged kid whose parents were trying to lure him out of his room and coerce him into Family Time. Not that he would know anything about that from personal experience.

He rolled his eyes and bit into his sandwich. “How ‘bout you two go?” he said around a mouthful of bread and meat.

Sam's nose wrinkled in disgust. “Dude –“

“It would be nice for all of us to get out of the Bunker,” Cas suggested casually. “This is the first lead we’ve had for a while. It would be smart to stay focused on the task at hand.”

Dean swallowed. “But we got more than one task, don’t we?” He wiped his hands on his jeans. “You guys got the angel front. I’ll keep workin’ on the demon front from here.”

Sam and Castiel looked to each other: a pointed quirk of an eyebrow from Cas, an quick, sullen shrug from Sam, and when in the hell did they move on to the silent communication stage?

“Dean –“

“I said no, Sam,” looking at them in turn, “Cas. I’m staying here.” He glanced down at his watch and saw it was almost time for Omelet’s last meal of the day. “I’m calling it a night, boys.” He got up to dump his plate into the sink, and was halfway out of the door when Sam called him again.

“C’mon, Dean –“

“I said no! Jesus. We’re all about making our own calls now, yeah? I. Don’t. Want. To. Go. That is my _choice_.” He couldn’t handle the stares from them both, Sam’s irritated, Cas’ disappointed. Dean shook his head. “You guys figure it out.”

They didn’t try to stop him when he left the dining room.

*      *     *     *     *     *      *     *     *     *

That night, Dean had another shitty sleep, plagued by nightmares, of Abaddon grinning at the Mark, of Sam with that holy fire in his eyes, of a bloodied Castiel, limp and restrained. The Bunker was still and quiet when he peeked his head out of his room to find a note, in Sam’s scrawl, taped to his door: _Headed out early. Be back late tonight._ He felt an unexpected relief at knowing there would be no sneaking around today, with Castiel and Sam gone, and he headed to the lower levels to check on Omelet.

The little bird didn’t stir when Dean dragged his chair close, and that immediately set off the warning bells in his head.

“Hey there, sleepy head. Don’t you want your breakfast?” There was no answering chirp at the sound of his voice, no perking of its little head in interest. Dean felt his heart plummet.

“C’mon, kiddo. You were fine a few hours ago.” The chick twitched its little wings weakly, and Dean watched its body shudder with its rapid-fire breaths. “Shit. No, no, no.”

Hours passed as Dean sat with the distressed chick, leaving only once to use the bathroom and grab a laptop. The only successes he had to show by the afternoon were that he was able to coax some water into Omelet, and to have the internet tell him his best bet was to find a vet, but with a wild bird, it probably wouldn’t matter anyway. Dean scrubbed roughly at his face, looked through his fingers at the growing feathers of the little animal that had beaten the odds so far.

“I ain’t givin’ up on you, kiddo.” He sighed shakily, “Not until you want to call it quits. But I guess that’s your call, and not mine, huh?” The chick lifted its head slowly, just a little, then collapsed heavily, as if the effort was too much. “Take it easy. I’ll be back before you know it.” Maybe a different flavor of food would help.

Dean made his way up to the kitchen, where he had a hidden stash of cat food cans that he bought when Omelet was baking. He still thought it was ironic, and maybe a little twisted, that it was acceptable to feed a growing bird the same thing as its Enemy #1, but he supposed you learned something new every day. Not that it really helped anything. At the top of the stairs, he paused, sighing, then continued down the hallway. _Just another thing you fucked up_ and _This is why we don’t fucking have pets_ , as he trudged into the kitchen, chest tight and head hung low.

Which was the perfect vantage point to see the tips of scuffed black boots standing amongst thrown-open, emptied cabinets and a pile of haphazardly stacked food items. Dean’s gaze flew up to pursed lips and a pair of clever blue eyes, and he felt more numb than shocked, until he realized what Castiel was holding.

“What. Why’re you. What’re you –“

“I find it curious,” Cas said, looking and sounding, for all intents and purposes, like a film noir detective, with his unbuttoned collar and unkempt hair. He was propped against the counter, flipping an unopened tin can smoothly in one hand. “You have hidden a supply of cat food, recently bought, if the generous expiration dates are any indication. Yet,” he looked at Dean with narrowed, suspicious eyes, “there are no cats to be seen.”

“Cas – “                                       

“As a matter of fact, you explicitly told me ‘no cats.’”

“ _Casti_ – “

“So I have to wonder,” he continued, undeterred by Dean’s growing irritation. “Why you are stocking such food. And why you are hiding it behind the Cheetos.”

Dean stalked over to him, snatching the can out of his hand. He stood nose to nose with him, a challenge, but Castiel remained unaffected by his display.

He growled, warning, “Just leave it alone, Ca—“

“Is it a present?” Castiel asked, serious.

The atmosphere changed abruptly, and Dean’s mouth worked uselessly for a moment as his brain struggled to switch gears. “I. _What_?”

“A present.” Castiel crooked an eyebrow at Dean’s confusion. “A gift. Dean.” He bit at his lip in an attempt to hold back a smile, and his body suddenly thrummed with unrestrained excitement. “Do we own a pet cat?”

“Wha –“ Dean scoffed, “No!”

The smile bloomed across Cas’ face, knowing. “I figured it out, Dean. I appreciate the secrecy, as is the custom, but it’s not a surprise now. No need to wait until my birthday.”

Dean could only gape at him. _What is my life?_ “You don’t have a friggin’ birthday!” _What is happening?_

“Yes, so it would be an unbearably long wait.” Castiel gripped Dean’s shoulders, shaking him briefly, eyes bright. “Let’s go see my cat, Dean.” Before Dean could register what was happening, Castiel was gone, his voice echoing down the hall, “It’s on one of the lower levels, yes?”

“Cas,” Dean croaked, finally getting his limbs to cooperate. “Cas!” He caught him at the top of the stairway, and Castiel spun around as Dean grabbed his arm roughly. He practically bounced on the tips of his toes.

“What floor is it on, Dean, what room?”

“Dude – “

“Where did it come from? Does it have a name?”

The mild panic Dean felt as he chased Castiel down was replaced with a rising rage.

“How old is it? What does it look like? Did you get toys for it to play with or do we have to –“

“Goddammit, Cas! That’s fucking enough!” His voice boomed in the space around them, but when shouting wasn’t enough to satisfy his anger, he whipped the tin of food at the wall. It bounced from the brick to the ground with a disappointing _thunk_ , leaving only the sound of Dean’s panting breaths to break the silence.

He realized belatedly that he was still gripping Cas’ arm, too tight, that if it was anyone else he’d be hurting them, and released him with an embarrassed glance. Castiel only stood silently, patiently, while Dean collected himself.

Dean paced a few steps away, back and forth, running a hand through his hair until he stopped in front of him again. He couldn’t meet his eyes, fixed his gaze at Cas’ shoes, when he murmured a soft, “I’m sorry.”

It was uncomfortably quiet between them, and for some reason, all Dean could think was, _And you just fucked this up, too. He’ll be out the door, and that’ll be the last straw –_

But his reverie was broken when he was suddenly tucked up against Castiel, firm and steadfast. He ran one gentle hand along the tense line of Dean’s spine, while the other rested warm against his neck. Dean could feel as much as hear it when Castiel spoke.

“ _I’m_ sorry. I’m sorry that you feel the way you do. I’m sorry that you can’t talk about what’s happening inside your head.” They swayed gently in the corridor as Dean let himself be held. “I’m sorry I can’t help you in the way you need it.” Castiel smoothed his hands across Dean’s shoulders, to cup lightly around his jaw. He waited until Dean looked at him to say, “But I can’t do anything unless you let me, Dean.” He pressed a gentle kiss to the bridge of Dean’s nose, like a benediction. Castiel’s eyes became unfocused, and he murmured to himself, “My dearest friend.”

At that, it was as though something unfurled in Dean’s chest, something he had been forcing down, since he found that tiny, innocent creature, raised by his own hand, fading away, since they all told each “no more extreme measures,” since the Mark, since Sam began questioning their relationship, since he kicked Cas to the curb, since, since, since. All he could do was reach out to clutch Castiel tightly to him as he tried to hold it together, to keep him from slipping away. Unwanted tears slipped from beneath his eyelids when he squeezed them shut, and he focused on the grounding weight of Cas’ arms around his shoulders, the steady swell of his chest as he breathed, the warmth against his ear when he exhaled. Dean leaned into the solid strength of him, calming, losing track of time, until he finally brushed a grateful kiss over Castiel’s temple as he pulled away.

“You son of a bitch,” he said gruffly, without any heat behind it. “You did that all on purpose, didn’t you?”

Castiel squared his stance and tipped his chin upward. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Dean huffed at him, mouth quirking up in a half-smile. “You’re not _that_ good.”

He made a noise of disagreement, squinting at Dean. “You threw a can of cat food at the wall.”

They both looked over to the dented tin, resting sadly in the middle of the floor. “It didn’t even explode,” Dean said mournfully.

“That would have been far more effective, yes,” Castiel agreed. He leaned in to add, “And I say that with _can_ dor, of course.”

Dean shook his head, smiling in disbelief, heart suffused with fondness for him. “When did you grow a sense of humor?”

“While you were locked away in your Batcave.”

“Finished some of those DVDs, I see.”

Cas blinked and dipped his head in confirmation.

Dean nodded to himself, coming to a decision, then rubbed his hands together before gesturing at the stairway. “Shall we?”

Castiel reached out to rest a hand against Dean’s chest, keeping him from moving forward. “Is it really a cat, Dean?”

He snorted. “No, Cas. No cat.” When Castiel only looked at him expectantly, he sighed. “We’ll see, okay?”

Patting his chest, Castiel’s mouth twisted slyly in approval before he turned to move down the stairs.

*      *     *     *     *     *      *     *     *     *

“And it’s been doing so well –“

“She. It’s a female robin.”

“How do you know that?”

Castiel looked at him, as though the answer was obvious. “She told me,” he deadpanned, and Dean couldn’t tell if he was joking.

“Ooh-kay.” He briefly got lost in the expression of wonder on Cas’ face as he inspected Dean’s homemade contraption and the tiny chick housed inside it. “Anyway, _she’s_ been eating and drinking and crapping just fine, ‘til today.”

Castiel straightened, knocking into Dean as they crowded around the desk. “It’s amazing that you got her this far, Dean. The statistics –“

“Yeah, I know the stats, Cas,” he replied tightly. He collapsed in the chair to watch Omelet’s body shake with dragging breaths, slower than before, then brushed a fingertip over the clear plastic dividing them, frowning sadly. “I’m sorry, kiddo.” Dean could feel Castiel’s gaze focused on the back of his head, like a physical presence.

“Why didn’t you tell us, Dean?” Castiel spoke gently, and each time she tried to turn her head toward the sound of his voice, a flower to his sun, and Dean had to suppress the instinct to do the same.

The dim light of the musty room, the entrancing hum of the heat lamp, and Cas’ comforting but unseen presence at his back gave the impression of a confessional, and Dean was so tired, of everything, with everything. For the second time in as many days, he let the truth slip.

“I’m tryin’, Cas. I’m tryin’ to figure out my shit,” he mumbled. “I’ve fucked up, with Sam, with you, _god_ , with _Kevin_ , with –“ he stopped, his hand moving unconsciously to cover the Mark. “I go too far, and everyone else gets hurt. I really am,” he spat, “poison.” Dean stared, unseeing, at the incubator, grateful that Castiel didn’t reply, didn’t even shift on his feet, as he collected his thoughts and continued.

“Sam’s right, in a way,” he struggled to admit. “I don’t wanna be alone. You guys are all I got, and I want you to be okay. If I lost either of you…” _that’d be the end of me_ , but he couldn’t finish.

“And yet,” Castiel’s voice cracked as he murmured, barely perceptible, “at what point does ‘at all costs’ become a measure of fear, rather than a measure of love?”

Over the years, it had become a muddled mess of both, had become primitive instinct rather than rational choice. It had become his driving force, and now...

“I’ve taken care of him my whole life,” Dean whispered painfully. “What am, if I’m not that? What good am I?” He stared desperately at the little robin. “‘Cause everything I touch goes to shit.”

Castiel set a gentle hand to lever himself into a crouch at Dean’s side, even though he didn’t need the support. In his periphery, Dean could see his face, his eyes glowing warmly with the light from the lamp, his skin golden.

“There are no words I can say, no spell or incantation, that can solve this for you, Dean, or make this better.” His hand crept up to rub soothing circles on the wing of Dean’s shoulder blade. “I could tell you I have seen your soul, and know that you are _good_ as surely as I know each star in the sky. I could tell you that you are more than your fear and your failings, because I have watched you punish yourself, and bleed, and suffer, and sacrifice on behalf of strangers, of innocent creatures,” motioning toward the chick, “just as surely as you do your family.” Dean didn’t resist when Castiel smoothed his hand to his neck, to rest under his chin and turn his head to face him, unflinchingly honest. “I could tell you that you are the best man I have ever had the honor to know, and you have saved me in ways I cannot begin to describe.” He smiled sadly. “But these are _my_ truths, and they will not change yours, regardless of how I wish they would, until you are ready to _see_.”

Castiel straightened effortlessly, and reached out to open the door of Omelet’s plastic chamber.

“And how do I do that?” Dean croaked.

“I don’t know,” Cas admitted quietly. “It’s a path we must discover in our own way, I think. It is a journey I am still undertaking, and Sam.” He looked to Dean. “And you. We have to find it for ourselves.”

“Alone.”

“Alone,” Castiel agreed, and Dean’s heart fell. He watched as Cas gently urged Omelet’s fragile body into the cradle of his palm. He cocked his head, squinting in thought. “But not alone.”

Dean’s face creased in confusion. “Huh?”

“You are the only one who can reconcile yourself, with yourself. That is a journey for your undertaking alone.” Castiel leveled his gaze back at Dean. “But just because our paths are separate, doesn’t mean they don’t intersect, or run parallel.”

“Cas,” Dean groaned, voice thin. “Like I’m five.”

Smiling at the fuzzy chick he held, “We are all on our own path. But that doesn’t mean we can’t support each other along the way.” He paused to blow into hands. “Letting go doesn’t mean a life-sentence of solitude.”

Suddenly, a weak but unmistakable _chirp, chirp_ sounded from the cup of Castiel’s hands. Dean shot to his feet, shocked, and gripped Cas’ wrists to shift them apart just enough to peer in. Omelet’s little head bobbed up at him, beak open and demanding.

“How did you –“

“Nor does it mean,” he paused until he was sure he had Dean’s attention, “you are unwanted, or unloved.” Castiel raised his hands slightly, and murmured, “I have never known your touch to be poison.”

Dean looked down at Omelet’s squirming body, safe in Castiel’s tender clasp, and he could feel the movement from where his hands were still latched around Cas’ wrists. At his fingertips, he could feel the dependable beat of Castiel’s heart. He huffed wetly.

“Shoulda just talked to you from the get-go, huh?” He nodded at the chick, but knew Castiel would hear the meaning.

“I always hear you, Dean. I will always be glad to help you.” And he might have given Cas crap about his total disregard of social cues, but he clearly sensed Dean needed to move on when he added, “Unless it requires feeding this bird in the traditional sense.”

Dean barked a laugh, shaking his head. “Ah, no, nope.” Castiel smiled back at him, eyes bright, and Dean exhaled deeply. “Alright, give it to me. What’d I screw up?”

“Nothing.” At Dean’s doubtful expression, he hurried to assure him, “You did everything right, truly.”

“So, what, did you mojo her better or something? Kinda goes against the whole spiel, doesn’t it?” Dean said, not unkindly.

“There was a power surge in the Bunker last night.” He cocked an eyebrow in the direction of the incubator. “I imagine it affected your temperature gauge.” Dean reached for the gauge, and sure enough, there was a small, dimly blinking icon indicating the need for recalibration. “She was cold. My body heat helped to rouse her again.” A new round of impatient peeping began, and Dean stumbled over his feet in a rush to prepare her food.

“Faulty equipment. You see, sometimes things happen that are beyond our control, despite all that we do right,” Cas said. Dean scooped a toothpick into the can of food, turning around once he was satisfied with the amount. “But it also seems that even when one believes a situation to be hopeless, there may actually be solutions to be found if we work together.”

Dean brushed his fingers over Castiel’s cupped hands, and they bloomed apart to reveal the grumpy chick. “Together?”

Castiel hummed in agreement, and together they watched as Omelet eagerly accepted the food, then immediately demanded more. When Dean reached out the second time, his free hand moved beneath Castiel’s, and even though they were steady without the support, Castiel let them drop to allow Dean to carry some of the weight.

They stood that way until Omelet’s chirping grew less urgent, gently easing into silence as she fell asleep.

Dean looked at Cas through his lashes. “Body heat, huh?”

Castiel smirked.

*      *     *     *     *     *      *     *     *     *

In the end, it was much easier rearing Omelet, he had to admit, with Cas and Sam’s help. And although Dean still had his nightmares, and his fears, and all the rest, he could almost feel the vague tendrils of healing creeping through the cracks in his mind and heart when he watched Sam and his giant hands handle Omelet with a grace that surprised even him, or the rare times he was able to sneak up on Cas and listen to him converse with the fledgling, who would chirp encouragingly at him in his pauses.

And when Dean gathered supplies to build an enclosure for Omelet so she could move outside, it was Sam who approached him and, hesitance and uncertainty palpable, asked if he could lend a hand. Hammering two by fours together while having a painful but necessary heart-to-heart with his brother proved to be a surprisingly efficient combination. Dean felt more at ease around Sam after that, and from the way Sam seemed to be more generous with his smiles, he did as well, having taken that first step. Together.

And when he woke in the middle of the night, heart pounding and mind heavy with the dark fog of some fading dream, Dean would slip outside to check on Omelet, only to find Castiel perched on a makeshift bench of leftover wood, watching over her. Cas didn’t turn when Dean plopped down beside him, didn’t ask what forced him to seek refuge there, didn’t even shift his gaze away from the slumbering heap of feathers. He only reached out blindly for Dean’s hand, finding it on the first try, and threaded his fingers through Dean’s. It was exactly what Dean needed, and for the rest of the night they sat, leaning against one another, measuring the minutes in  Omelet’s calm exhalations. Together.

Too soon, the time came when it was clear that, although she was saved and raised by the hand and the love of a human, Omelet was a wild thing at heart. More often, she shied away from them when they approached her, and tended to prefer picking insects from the grass rather than accepting food from Dean. He found himself watching her from a safe distance, as she flapped clumsily in her cage, as she tucked her little feet into wire sides and stared out at the horizon.

Once, Dean walked out to check on her water supply, and saw her bouncing along the bottom of the enclosure, a mirror image to the wild robin dancing on the other side. Together, they picked at the grass, chirping at one another in turn, vocalizations Dean had never heard from his little bird before. Suddenly, the wild robin jerked its head to the wind, finally noticing Dean, and quickly took to the wing. Omelet tried to follow, railing uselessly against the sturdy wire and wood of the cage that he built. Dean swallowed hard, turning smoothly on his heel, and headed back into the Bunker. He knew what he had to do.

It figured that the first pet he took under his wing would be one he could never really keep.

*      *     *     *     *     *      *     *     *     *

Dean and Castiel stood a safe distance from the enclosure as they waited for Sam to find his camera, despite Dean’s protests against photo documentation of what was going to be one of the crappiest days of his life.

“You’re doing the right thing, Dean,” Castiel assured him.

“I know that, Cas,” he said shortly. He scrubbed a hand through his hair and released a long breath. “I know,” Dean repeated, more gently.

Castiel swayed into Dean’s side, bumping his shoulder. “But that doesn’t make it easy.”

“Nope,” Dean laughed miserably. “It sucks.” He watched Omelet hop around in the grass, and then pause to stretch her wings and scratch at her head. It amazed Dean at how far she had come, from that little ball of speckled blue rolling across the pavement, to the demanding ball of fluff, to the beautiful, maturing young robin she was now. And he realized, that everything he had done had been leading up to this moment. That she had been telling Dean this was the outcome from the start, when she survived an impossible fall, when her egg tried to roll to freedom, when she stubbornly pulled through despite being raised by fumbling human hands, when she rejected his offer of free food and chose to pull her own from the ground instead. Dean was there to protect and care for the vulnerable animal when she couldn’t, but the desire for freedom and independence was ingrained in her from the start, and she just. Dean swallowed hard. She just didn’t need him anymore.

“Dean.” Castiel’s eyes were narrowed in concern, and from his tone of voice, it was not the first time he called his name. “Are you alright?”

“Why does it always end this way?” he asked softly, almost hoping Castiel wouldn’t hear. The sudden pressure of Cas’ fingers around his wrist told him that wasn’t the case.

“Why do you assume this is an ending?”

Dean scoffed. “Defenseless little bird, throw her into the wild, sure, everything’s gonna be awesome.”

“You’re right,” said Castiel. “The odds of her survival in the wild are low, regardless of the manner in which she was raised.”

Dean gaped at him in disbelief. “Gee, Cas, you sure know how to make a guy feel better.”

“Then again,” Castiel continued. “The odds that she would survive a fall from a tree were low, as were the odds she would hatch. The odds that she would survive as a chick, and grow to become a fledgling, and adapt as she has, were all extremely low.” Omelet hovered in the air, strong wings beating against the breeze, chirping and trilling. “Yet, here we stand.” Dean felt a warm hand on his shoulder, and he turned to face him. “You’ve done so well. This is your victory as much as it is hers.” And suddenly Dean felt like they were talking about something else entirely.

“Doesn’t feel like I’m winning, right now,” he admitted quietly.

“Letting go doesn’t mean goodbye, Dean. It means caring for someone, or something, enough to respect what they have chosen, and the risks that come with it.”

Dean clenched his jaw. “And then what?” he rasped.

Castiel cocked his head, eyes soft and kind. “You trust in them enough to come back to you.”

“And if they don’t?”

Cas’ mouth quirked. “I believe that is where the _trust_ comes into play.” He sighed. “Sometimes there are extenuating circumstances, or higher callings, or unfortunate incidents. Sometimes, it is beyond our control,” Castiel said, shaking his head. “Then, you must take comfort in the fact that you allowed that someone you loved the freedom to walk his own road.”                                                  

Dean ducked his head, rubbing roughly at his eyes. “Pretty deep shit, about a little bird.”

“We did spend a lot of time together while you and Sam were sleeping.”

Dean snorted.

“Did you know,” Castiel said casually, “that it is very likely Omelet will build her own nest nearby, in the future?” Dean shrugged. “It’s true. She will go out into the world, and will see and learn, struggle and succeed, and in the end, she’ll be back.”

“Know a little something about that, do ya?”

Castiel smiled. “I would consider myself an authority on the topic, yes.”

Sam chose that moment to emerge with the camera plastered to his face, and together they advanced toward the enclosure. Castiel and Sam stopped, a respectful distance away, to allow Dean to approach the cage alone. Omelet was perched on the side opposite the door, opposite Dean, her speckled orange breast heaving with uncertainty, dark eyes wide. Dean rested his hand on the latch, then looked over his shoulder to Sam and Cas.

He thought about how his and his brother’s relationship had become a cage over the years, one they had built together, as real as the wire and wood that stood beneath his hand.

He thought about Castiel, all of their ups and downs, of all of the times he thought Castiel was lost to the wind and gone forever.

He thought of all of the work they still had to do, together and apart, for the good of each other and for themselves, for the world. In an instant, Dean saw their paths, one, two, three separate journeys, no matter how he tried to merge them into one. It would always be that way, and locking each other away wouldn’t change that, or make them safer, or better.

Dean turned back to the cage and unlatched the hook, fingers poking through the wire. _Letting go isn’t goodbye_ , he thought. _It means I love you enough to let you be what you are, even if it’s dangerous_. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes. _And if I’m lucky, you’ll come back_.

“Good luck, kiddo,” he whispered, choked. “And thank you.”

With that, he pulled the hatch open and backed away to join Sam and Castiel. Omelet quirked her head once, twice, in confusion, at the open door. After several moments, she fluttered over to perch on the threshold and looked at the sky, at the trees rustling in the breeze. As she crouched to take flight, Dean felt Castiel slip his hand into his, and then Omelet spread her little wings and disappeared into the forest.

Dean’s chest was tight when he murmured, disbelieving, “That’s it?”

Sam lowered the camera, turning it off with a _beep_. He patted Dean’s shoulder, let his hand rest there comfortingly, and didn’t speak.

Then Castiel shook their joined hands, said, “Dean,” low and urgent.

Omelet exploded from the tree-line, inelegant but stubborn as she caught the currents of the wind, a dark shadow against the bright blue of the sky. She dipped and spun and dove, and Dean found himself smiling through tears. Then she dropped from her path, and Dean felt his stomach twist until he realized that she was slowing to land upon the enclosure. Her feathers puffed and she shook herself, flapping her wings as if to show Dean, _see, I’ll be fine_ , and then cocked her head at him, staring intently.

 _Cas teach you that?_ Dean laughed to himself.

He imagined that he could still do the Doctor Dolittle thing, could hear her reply, _Thank_ you, _Dean_ , before she took to the wing again. She circled their heads several times, chirping all the while, then righted and flew upwards, toward the sun. And as he watched her stretch her wings against the backdrop of the speckled blue sky, he focused on the heavy weight of Sam’s hand upon his shoulder, and Castiel’s fingers threaded through his own and how, despite their differences and trials and difficulties, they always seemed to find each other.

They wouldn’t always be together. He and Sam had a lot to work on, and Castiel had a lot of decisions to make in his very near future. And yet, as Omelet disappeared into the clouds, he felt a cautious hope engulf his heart, and a strange kind of calm, as though he passed some test he didn’t realize he was taking.

Dean heard the distinct sound of Omelet’s song echoing in the distance, and smiled.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Never, ever do what Dean did. Not only is it illegal to keep wild animals in captivity in the United States, oftentimes, you will be doing far more harm than good. Birds will often continue to care for young that have fallen out of the nest, and raising a wild bird in captivity is not only difficult, it is detrimental to the bird, as it will not be able to learn the means to survive upon release. If you believe a nest or young have been abandoned or injured, contact your nearest professional wildlife rehabilitator as soon as possible. (More tips from the [Humane Society of the United States](http://www.humanesociety.org/animals/resources/tips/injured_orphaned_wildlife.html).)
> 
> (As far as I'm concerned, though, Omelet will be fine!)
> 
> Thank you to [spndork](spndork.tumblr.com) for the wonderful prompt!
> 
> Also posted on [Tumblr](http://tardisy.tumblr.com/post/77679823163/fledgling-dean-castiel-sam-deancas)!


End file.
